Page 70 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

I answer her with equal tenderness in my voice. “Your gran?”

It’s a statement formed as a question. I remember her term for her grandmother. Obviously, they were close.

“Yeah. Gran.” She looks down at Rhett. “Well, hello there, cutie pie. I’m sorry I interrupted your dance party.” Her voice is light and sweet, full of affection for my dog.

“So … pasta?” I offer. “We have some options. I’ve got fusilli, linguini, and angel hair, I think. And I know how to make an alfredo, a marinara, or I could make an amatriciana since we aren’t going to be kissing.”

What did I just say?

Her eyes meet mine. I want to melt into the floor.

“I’ll probably be kissing this guy, though,” she jokes back, rubbing Rhett between the ears and saving me from myself.

“True, but he’s not picky. Trust me. I think he kissed the furnace at least four times today. I hope you’re not the jealous type.”

“I actually am,” she looks straight at me.

“Well, then, I wouldn’t go kissing Rhett. He has no scruples.”

She giggles.Actuallygiggles.

“I’m going to sound foolish,” she says. “But what is amatriciana sauce?”

“Not foolish at all. It’s a tomato sauce with onions, garlic, smoked pancetta, and seasonings.”

“Is it hard to make?”

She wants it. I’m going to make her the best pasta she’s ever eaten.

“Same as the others. Relatively easy. I’d love to make it for you.”

Her expression is quizzical. “I’ll help you.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

“I could just take a flashlight,” she offers as she stands and follows me to my kitchen. “Or use the one on my phone … and get some cereal, or those leftovers I was going to heat up.”

“Better not to keep opening the fridge right now while the electricity is sketchy. You want to keep all the cold air in there.”

I’m grasping at straws to keep her here. I hope I’m not too transparent.

“Besides,” I say. “All this talk of pasta is making me hungry. I’m going to have to make some either way now.”

I turn and look into her deep brown eyes … which are softer tonight. More welcoming than ever in our shared history.

“Besides,” I say. “You don’t want to miss out on this pasta.”

“Really? It’s that good?” She challenges me, as always.

“It’s not good.” I cock an eyebrow at her. “It’s the best.”

Chapter Eighteen

Logan

Life is a combination of magic and pasta.

~ Federico Fellini

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